Trial By Fire Read online

  PRAISE FOR DiANN MILLS

  DEADLOCK

  “DiAnn Mills brings us another magnificent, inspirational thriller in her FBI: Houston series. Deadlock is a riveting, fast-paced adventure that will hold you captive from the opening pages to the closing epilogue.”

  FRESHFICTION.COM

  “Mills’s newest installment in the FBI: Houston series will keep readers on the edge of their seats. For those who love a good ‘who-done-it,’ Deadlock delivers.”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  “Mills does a superb job building the relationship between the two polar opposite detectives. With some faith overtones, Deadlock is an excellent police drama that even mainstream readers would enjoy.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  DOUBLE CROSS

  “DiAnn Mills always gives us a good thriller, filled with inspirational thoughts, and Double Cross is another great one!”

  FRESHFICTION.COM

  “Tension explodes at every corner within these pages. . . . Mills’s writing is transparently crisp, backed up with solid research, filled with believable characters and sparks of romantic chemistry.”

  NOVELCROSSING.COM

  “For the romantic suspense fan, there is plenty of action and twists present. For the inspirational reader, the faith elements fit nicely into the context of the story. . . . The romance is tenderly beautiful, and the ending bittersweet.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  FIREWALL

  “Mills takes readers on an explosive ride. . . . A story as romantic as it is exciting, Firewall will appeal to fans of Dee Henderson’s romantic suspense stories.”

  BOOKLIST

  “With an intricate plot involving domestic terrorism that could have been ripped from the headlines, Mills’s romantic thriller makes for compelling reading.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “A fast-moving, intricately plotted thriller.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Mills once again demonstrates her spectacular writing skills in her latest action-packed work. . . . The story moves at a fast pace that will keep readers riveted until the climactic end.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “This book was so fast-paced that I almost got whiplash. . . . Heart-pounding action from the first page . . . didn’t stop until nearly the end of the book. If you like romantic suspense, I highly recommend this one.”

  RADIANT LIT

  “Fast-paced and action-packed. . . . DiAnn Mills gives us a real winner with Firewall, a captivating and intense story filled with a twisting plot that will have you on the edge of your seat.”

  FRESHFICTION.COM

  “Firewall is exciting, thrilling. . . . DiAnn Mills draws her readers in, holding them breathlessly hostage until the very last page. She is a master at her craft and her genre.”

  BOOKFUN.ORG

  “Firewall should come with a warning! Be prepared to lose your breath and a lot of sleep with this exhilarating read.”

  LYNETTE EASON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE DEADLY REUNIONS SERIES

  “Firewall is an up-until-2 a.m. book. . . . I had no idea who the mastermind was until the last two or three pages. Mills keeps getting better and better. Can’t wait for the next one!”

  LAURAINE SNELLING, AUTHOR OF THE WILD WEST WIND SERIES AND WAKE THE DAWN

  “Firewall is a gripping ride that will keep your blood pumping and your imagination in high gear.”

  DANI PETTREY, AUTHOR OF THE ALASKAN COURAGE SERIES

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit DiAnn Mills at www.diannmills.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Trial by Fire

  Copyright © 2013 by DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of man copyright © by Digital Vision/Thinkstock.com. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of skyline copyright © by Santiago Cornejo/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman copyright © by moodboard/Alamy. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Faceout Studio, Charles Brock

  Published in association with the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409.

  Trial by Fire is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  ISBN 978-1-4964-2008-4 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-2007-7 (Apple); ISBN 978-1-4964-2009-1 (ePub)

  Build: 2016-06-28 12:12:52

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Preview of Deadly Encounter

  Preview of Firewall

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Monday mornings had never been FBI Special Agent Savannah Barrett’s favorite day. Lawbreakers did their best work during the weekend.

  She stared at the crime report on her computer. Another Houston church burned during the night. This was her city, her responsibility, and the fourth church torched in the past two months.

  No casualties.

  No clear signature.

  No substantial leads.

  Always gasoline based, and the devastation occurred in the wee hours of the morning.

  Church attendance had bottomed in the city, and who could blame anyone? How long before innocent lives were sacrificed to the god of fire?

  Massaging her temples, she focused on the MO of an arsonist who obviously enjoyed the sight and sound of exploding stained-glass windows. She’d hoped the report before her would have more information than what she and her partner gleaned at 3 a.m.

  Someone slipped a cup of coffee, rich with cream, under her nose. “Thought you might need this,” Special Agent Paul Winston said.

  She wrapped her fingers around the mug and offered a weary smile into his equally exhausted features. “Yum. You’re such a good partner.”

  “You’ve been saying that for five years.”

  “Right.” He’d also been asking her out for that long, but she had a career, and it didn’t include a husband. Not that he wouldn’t be a good choice, but keeping him as her best friend meant no complications. She tucked a stray hair into her bun. “So what do you suggest?”

  Paul gulped his coffee. “The psychological assessment indicates our arsonist is either an adrenaline junkie or angry and wants revenge. He may have a code of ethics because no one’s dead. A firebug thrill.”

  “I think the report is missing vital data.” She allowed the hot brew to warm her throat while charging her nerves. “These churches are older, established in the late 1800s within ten years of each other.”

  “The original members can be found in the city’s cemeteries.”

  “Be serious, Paul. Hear me out. The families of the descendants could still be members, and our man could be holding a grudge.”

  “You’re looking at various denominations that have expanded to different ethnic backgrounds. They don’t resemble the original demographics.”

  “The changes didn’t occur until the last few decades. Back then, members in those churches were white.”

  “Are you suggesting a black man? Someone whose family had been denied church membership in the days before integration?” He took a drink of his coffee. “Don’t think so, Savannah. If you’re onto some age-old grudge, then why wait until now for revenge? Too far out there.”

  Grit st
ung her eyes. “Blame it on sleep deprivation.”

  “Maybe. It’s an angle that can be explored. Never know what motivates a criminal. Here’s my thought.” He paused. “Someone might want the real estate. These churches have insurance, but do they have enough to completely rebuild? I’m looking into that later on this morning. One more thing—the team that’s been monitoring cameras at gas stations hasn’t found a thing.”

  “Our firebug’s smart enough not to buy gas where there’s a camera.” But the man had to buy fuel somewhere. “The crimes are forming a circle.”

  He pointed to a printout of the city’s map on her desk. “We need to see what churches are within the scope and keep an eye on them.”

  “We’re all over the place with this case.”

  “We’ll figure it out. What were you studying before I walked in?”

  She tilted her head and pointed to the computer screen. “Look at his shoe print. Same one found at the other bombings. Size 10½ D. Always a clear indention with no trace of where he’s been. As though he uses a new pair for each fire. But as he walks around the church, his shoes pick up mud and debris that’s evident in this last photo.”

  “Have you verified this with each crime?”

  She nodded. “Our guy not only has a fetish for burning churches but possibly new or clean tennis shoes. Like a ritual.”

  “The brand is available at every Walmart and discount store in town.”

  “What’s his message?” She pulled up another screen. “The profile for these shoes are males between the ages of sixteen and thirty-six. No race preference. Nothing fancy. Just plain, inexpensive tennis shoes in gray and white—and average size.” She changed the screen to reflect last night’s fire.

  “What’s different?”

  “Last night it rained before the fire. I noticed the right foot left a bigger impression. Snapped a few pics, but I didn’t think much about it until this morning.” To better compare the images, she maneuvered her mouse and positioned the images next to each other. “In each photo, the right foot has a bigger indentation.”

  He leaned over her shoulder, and his breath eased warm against her neck. “One foot longer than the other or a slight limp.”

  “So we have a man who’s angry with older churches and has a limp. Now to see where this goes.” She sent a request to the FBI’s Field Intelligence Group.

  “Let’s follow up on the history of those churches and see if anything pops up. But I doubt it.”

  “This case is driving me nuts.”

  “And you haven’t eaten.”

  The man knew her better than she knew herself. It wasn’t 8 a.m., but with the hours she’d been up, her stomach registered empty. “Not donuts or a bagel. I want a hamburger.”

  Paul lifted a brow. “I’m not surprised. No onion. Cheese. You want waffle fries and a large Dr Pepper with no ice?”

  She nodded. “I’ll buy if you’ll get it.”

  “Sure.” He picked up her desk calendar and pointed to the day’s date. “You’ve already marked off today on your blast from the past.”

  “Right. As of tomorrow, I have exactly two years before retirement.”

  “Happy birthday.” He grinned. “I used to despise the thought of being put out to pasture, but I’m feeling better about it.”

  “You mean with opening a shooting range?” Savannah studied him. “When we nail this church bomber, I’ll give my future more thought.”

  Her cell phone rang and she didn’t recognize the caller. She reached to turn it off, but her instincts took over. “Special Agent Savannah Barrett speaking.”

  “This is the Miami Police Department. Are you the mother of Travis David Barrett?”

  Acid raced up her throat. “I am.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to inform you of this, but your son and his wife were killed yesterday morning in a car accident. A semitruck swerved left of center and hit them head-on.”

  She clenched her fist, noting her white knuckles, but she seemed powerless to loosen the grip.

  “Mrs. Barrett?”

  This had to be a mistake. She and Travis hadn’t mended their relationship. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They have been identified.”

  “Do I need . . . need to claim my son’s body?”

  Paul touched her shoulder.

  “Yes, and there’s children involved.”

  “What children?” She hadn’t known Travis was married. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the only surviving relative. We have them in a foster home until you arrive.”

  At least they were together. “I’m not in a position to take in children. I’m an FBI special agent.”

  “I’m not sure that matters, ma’am. Three children need you to help them through this tragedy.”

  Three? Her heart thudded against her chest. “How old are they?”

  He huffed. “You don’t know?”

  “My son and I haven’t spoken in ten years. I wasn’t aware of his marriage.”

  “That explains your reaction to my call. I really am sorry. I have the children’s information in front of me. Oldest daughter is seven, and her name is Prime. The middle daughter is five, and her name’s Cloud, and the three-year-old boy is Mac.”

  Where had Travis come up with those names? Did it really matter?

  Dead. Travis was dead. She squeezed the arm of her chair to gain control.

  “Mrs. Barrett, how quickly can you be at the Miami police station?”

  “How long will this take?”

  “I suggest three days minimum to make funeral arrangements, take care of legal matters, and meet your grandchildren,” he said. “I’m sure the FBI can manage without you a few days.”

  Savannah drew in a ragged breath. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

  Chapter 2

  Savannah sat outside the Miami police station. Grief raged like an incurable disease. She’d faced death and tragedy over the years with the FBI and known the agony of losing her husband to cancer. The old saying of “parents should not have to bury their children” cut deep.

  Special Agent Savannah Barrett, tough and dedicated to keeping Houston safe, feared a breakdown.

  What would she do with three children? Did they look like Travis? Were they smart like him? Did they have his love of the outdoors and wild imagination?

  If only she and Travis hadn’t quarreled before he moved to Florida. They were a stubborn mother and son . . . always had been. Worse after his dad’s death.

  Lifting her chin, she opened the door to the police station. She’d handle business and allow herself to fall apart later in the hotel room.

  After meeting with the officer who’d called the day before, she drove to the morgue. She hated making the trip there. Knowing her son lay inside a metal drawer seemed inhumane.

  “I’d like to see my son alone,” she said to a young man in a white jacket.

  “Ma’am, our policy is to accompany visitors.”

  “I’m not a visitor. I’m a mother, and I’m with the FBI.” She handed him her ID. This needed to be a solo affair. She hadn’t admitted her mistakes before, but she could now and hope heaven communicated her message.

  He returned her ID. “I’ll wait outside the glass window during the viewing. Sorry for your loss.”

  She acknowledged his condolences and followed him down a hall to a small room that was white and sterile. She hated the antiseptic smell mixed with body fluids. And the lingering odor of death.

  He retrieved the body and pulled back a sheet revealing Travis’s face and neck. She gasped. Tears filled her eyes while her stomach revolted. She grabbed a trash can.

  “Are you sure you want to be alone?”

  She nodded and pulled a tissue from her purse to wipe her mouth.

  “Okay. When you’re finished, I can let you see your daughter-in-law.”

  “Hasn’t anyone claimed her body?”

  “No, ma’am. She has no family.”
/>   Savannah rubbed the chill bumps on her arm.

  The young man exited the room, and she forced her attention on her only son. The same dark hair, long eyelashes, and trim build. She touched the tiny scar above his left eye . . . remembering when he’d been whacked by a baseball bat in third grade. Five stitches.

  The car accident hadn’t destroyed his facial features. A blessing in the midst of horror. Her fingers trailed over his face while images of the baby and little boy flashed before her.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t see your pain,” she whispered. “We missed your dad and were miserable. Our arguments were my fault. I was selfish and didn’t see how you ached for him. Please forgive me, Travis. I’ve always loved you.”

  Liquid grief flowed down her cheeks. The minutes passed as she talked to him about soccer and baseball, how her heart soared when he was on the field. “I regret I never met your wife. I’m sure she was beautiful inside and out.” The plight of her three grandchildren, Travis’s children, fogged her mind. “I’ll take good care of Prime, Cloud, and Mac. Not sure how. Maybe God’s given me a second chance to do a better job.” She swallowed the thickness in her throat.

  * * *

  Hours later, in the hotel room, Savannah cried until she vomited, weeping more while she hugged the ceramic bowl. Before today, tears hadn’t surfaced since her husband died. Didn’t know she had any to give. For the past fifteen years, she’d invested her emotions in the FBI. Every breath had been for the good of the bureau. She’d ignored Travis until he left with a note claiming he had to get away. What she wouldn’t do to change their relationship. She lay on the bed and willed it all to vanish.

  A text from Paul startled her.

  r u ok?

  tuff day

  wanna talk?

  need alone time

  r u sure?

  c kids 2morrow

  not how i wanted U to spend ur b’day

  right

  She’d forgotten about the day.

  u will b ok

  She wasn’t convinced. Another text came in.

  wish i were there

  She typed me 2, then deleted it. He’d misunderstand, and she had enough problems.